


The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 4

by ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade



Series: The Strategist and the Redhead [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:04:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade/pseuds/ignis_scientia_estrogen_brigade
Summary: This series of fics features an OC that originated from a brief headcanon I wrote in the early days of The Ignis Scientia Estrogen Brigade; they were written out of chronological order, so I apologize for any inconsistencies you might happen to come across. Part 4 is shameless Regalia sex.





	The Strategist and the Redhead; Part 4

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before the start of in-game events. And no, the redhead doesn't have a name. Sorry. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_Of all bloody days,_ the redhead thinks, wrapping her coat a little tighter around herself.

Her footfalls echo against pillars of concrete as she shifts impatiently from foot to foot. It wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary to find herself waiting for the strategist’s midnight signal in the underground parking structure of his apartment complex; although she usually listened for the sound of his front door unlocking from the shadows of his floor’s elevator landing, on occasions when the crown prince stayed up abnormally late and trolled the hallways—he lived just three units down from Ignis—more clandestine measures were sometimes required.

It made little difference to her where precisely she waited for him, but the dimly lit garage was thirty feet below street level and several degrees colder besides, and rainy nights like tonight made it all the more frigid. The soft ringlets she had coiled into her tresses had long since atrophied into limp waves despite the umbrella she had brought along with her; she wouldn’t have bothered curling her hair at all knowing he would rake his hands through it within five seconds of liberating her from her clothes, but today was a special day, and she had hoped he might take note of her extra effort.

But the strategist wasn’t even there to comment on her crimson lipstick and silk skirt—still upstairs entertaining his royal charge, presumably—and the clock on her cellular tells her he’s kept her waiting forty-five minutes longer than their customary agreed-upon time. She steps slowly toward a familiar black sports car parked in a private valet space and runs her fingers along the single word affixed to the bumper in raised letters, blowing out a frustrated sigh and tucking herself behind the vehicle in an effort to shield herself from the worst of the evening chill.

It’s only when she’s checked her mobile five more times in as many minutes that she finally hears a second set of footsteps echoing throughout the quiet parking structure. She knows it’s him by the sound of his stride; his long legs and rigid posture gave his gait a distinct air of authority that could be heard even before being seen. She smooths down her skirt as best she can—the light drizzle on her walk over to his apartment had left it slightly damp—then moves out from behind the car as she spots his lanky figure approaching.

“Having trouble putting the baby to sleep?” she teases.

Ignis’ spectacled features materialize into view as he steps into the glow of a nearby light fixture, his expression a mixture of annoyance and guilt. “Apologies. It appears Noct has an important final tomorrow he forgot all about, and is currently pacing my flat in a state of utter panic.”

He’s wearing his leather jacket, she notes, which wouldn’t have been odd except for the fact that he was presently shoving his hands into his driving gloves as well. “Going somewhere?”

“An errand,” he replies quickly, then tosses her a quizzical glance. “Haven’t you been outside? You’ll catch a cold wearing a skirt in this dreaded weather.”

She ignores the hint of disapproval that laces his voice and closes the distance between them. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m wearing a skirt in the first place?”

She knows it’s not the fear of being witnessed that causes the strategist to shy away from her when she moves to touch him; the parking structure had multiple surveillance cameras stationed at strategic points along the interior, but the spaces reserved for royal use were left unmonitored specifically for the purpose of obscuring which vehicles the prince entered and which were decoys. It’s why Ignis had always told her to wait behind the Regalia whenever she was exiled to the garage—the very car she was standing beside right now.

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he says carefully, “but I’m actually going to have to ask you to leave.”

Her face falls. “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not. A midnight tutoring session was the last thing I was hoping to deal with this evening, but I can’t very well let Noct fail his exam.”

“What are you going to do? Take his test for him?”

“No, but I can run to the convenience store and pick up some Ebony. That ought to keep him awake and studying for another couple of hours.”

She narrows her eyes, then retrieves her wet umbrella from her purse and sets her jaw. “I’ll go with you.”

He finishes tightening his gloves and meets her defiant gaze with a infuriatingly blank one of his own. “That would be… inadvisable.”

“Why?”

He then fishes his car keys from his pocket and moves to the driver’s side of the Regalia. “Because while we might be safe from prying eyes here, there’s no less than ten security cameras trained on the garage’s exit ramp.”

“I’ll hide in the back seat, if that’ll put your mind at ease.”

“That doesn’t resolve the dilemma of being seen together outside the Citadel.”

She might’ve laughed, had the vein in her temple not suddenly begun to throb. “It’s one o’clock in the morning, Ignis. Who’s going to care at this hour?”

_“I care,”_ he says sharply. “I’d rather not risk my reputation over a few cans of coffee, if it can be helped.”

The redhead wouldn’t have deigned to presume he would ever entertain her in any _official_ capacity; the fantasy of being wined and dined by him publicly at fancy restaurants and luxury resorts was just that—a fantasy, one she knew would never realistically occur while they were both chained to their loyalties to the crown. It would take nothing less than the complete extinction of the Lucian family line to make Ignis Scientia renounce his vows to the king and heir, and indulging in silly delusions was a wasted effort entirely.

But the few hours of privacy she shared with him each night was the only thing she’d ever really had to look forward to since swearing her oath to Insomnia and its constituents, and she wasn’t about to relinquish that small mercy without a fight, especially since she’d been on her feet since early that morning assigned to mundane gate duty. She might’ve been in a less combative mood under different circumstances, more sympathetic to the strategist’s plight, but today was a special day, and her temper is eating away at her patience.

“Your reputation already precedes you,” she snaps. “What difference does one more notch in your belt for people to gossip about make?”

She had never seen the strategist angry before, and even goading him now does little to dent his enduring stoicism; still, her remark hits a visible nerve—whispers surrounding his numerous romantic dalliances had reached her ears long before she had ever met him in the flesh—and she can see a spark of ire flash behind his emerald eyes.

He taps a button on his keys without breaking her stare. “If you’re going to bark at me like that, let’s at least resolve our differences behind closed doors.”

His canine metaphor mercifully stops short of referencing any female dogs, and the soft _click_ of the Regalia unlocking breaks through the roar of her pulse rising in her ears. She returns her umbrella to her purse before grudgingly dropping into the passenger seat as he settles in behind the steering wheel; rather than inserting the keys into the ignition, however, he simply places them on the dashboard and pushes back on his glasses with a gloved hand.

“Care to enlighten me on what this is really about?” he asks, the irritation in his voice unmissable. “You don’t generally get this testy with me unless I’m tripping you with my lance on the sparring mat.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes and casts a heated glance in his direction. “Perhaps I was simply unaware of the full extent of your duties to the prince. Do you audit his classes for him while he’s out playing hooky as well? Kiss his scraped knees when he falls off his bicycle? Read him a bedtime story before he turns in for the night?”

“Don’t be obtuse. I do what is required of me, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Well, then I suppose we’re all rather doomed if the future king of Lucis can’t even remember to study for his high school exit exams.”

He props a hand on the steering wheel and turns in his seat to face her. “What would you have me do? Go up there and kick him out?”

“You’re the one who let him waltz into your apartment uninvited,” she counters. “If you ask me, I’d say you were somewhat of an enabler.”

His grip over the steering wheel tightens. “I didn’t ask you, and that’s not really your place to comment.”

She isn’t quite sure how she went from being a glorified bed warmer to an expert on his relationship with the crown prince, but the look of ire on his face silences any further argument from her. “If you weren’t interested in my opinions,” she mutters, "all you had to do was tell me to keep my mouth shut and look pretty.”

Several uncomfortable moments pass before either one of them speaks. “I was under the impression you understood the limitations of what I could offer,” he says finally. “I’d just as soon bring our dealings to an amicable end if you’re finding them no longer favorable.”

The fire coursing through her veins is quickly replaced by cold tendrils of defeat; the strategist wouldn’t have been the first man to abruptly part ways with her, and the redhead was cynical enough by now to promptly extinguish any feelings of sentimentality before they could leave a lasting scar on her heart. “Perhaps I did allow my expectations to grow a bit lofty.”

“There would be no lingering resentment on my part, I can assure you.”

It isn’t so much the act of terminating their partnership that feels like a swift kick to the teeth, but the painful indifference in his voice; perhaps the rumors that Ignis Scientia had a magitek generator in place of his heart were true, after all. “How kind of you.”

“I’m sorry if this wasn’t the resolution you were hoping for.”

His face is angled toward her, but she can’t see him, not really, because her eyes are welling up despite her best efforts at clamping down on her emotions. “Of all bloody days,” she whispers.

“I beg your pardon?”

A sharp bite to the inside of her cheek is enough to stay her tears, and she sniffs once before focusing her attention on the folds of her skirt. “Did you know today was my birthday?”

His hand falls from the steering wheel, and she can hear the creaking of the leather seat shifting beneath him. “I did, actually.”

_Of course you did, because you know everything. You just have all the answers, don’t you?_ “I see.”

“I even baked a cake with your name on it, if you’ll believe it. Literally.”

The aching in her chest eases a tad. “Literally?”

He’s fiddling with the buckles of his gloves when she finally returns her gaze to him. “Indeed. I piped the letters in buttercream frosting, but I had to toss the whole thing away rather suddenly when Noct came barging through my door wailing about functions and derivatives.” He then offers her a halfhearted grin. “Couldn’t have any incriminating evidence about my personal life lying around.”

Maybe the strategist really did have a magitek generator humming inside his ribcage, or maybe she just didn’t know him well enough to discern whether his apathy was simply a byproduct dictated by an increasingly demanding profession. But the redhead wasn’t aware of any MTs who were skilled in the art of confections, nor one with a smile as endearing as his, so she reaches across the divider and touches a tentative hand to his own.

“I didn’t mean to imply I was dissatisfied with our arrangement,” she says quietly. “Only that I was hoping to spend the last few hours of my birthday with enjoyable company. I don’t have any family within a hundred miles of Insomnia, and sitting alone on my couch nursing a bottle of wine didn’t seem quite as fulfilling. I ought to have known competing with the prince for your attention would be a losing battle.”

His fingers tighten around hers, the shadows of the dimly lit parking structure dancing across his angular features. “I’d certainly rather be sharing a bottle of wine with you than helping Noct with his overdue math homework, if I had the choice.”

“You don’t have to explain. I understand where your priorities lie.” Her lips then twist into a wry smirk. “Although I daresay I look marginally better in lipstick and a skirt than the prince.”

He releases her fingers and traces a hand across the curve of her jaw. “You look beautiful. You always do.”

His touch is warm even through the soft leather of his gloves, and her eyelids fall shut as he runs a thumb across her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Do let me make the night up to you at some point. I’d offer to salvage a slice of cake from out of the garbage, but I fear my impromptu houseguest would plunder it for himself before you even had the chance to taste it.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of a suitable alternative.”

She can’t see him through closed eyes, but she can hear him lean across the divider, can smell the scent of his cologne swirling in her nostrils. And she can feel the warmth of his breath on her face when he presses his lips gently to hers, and soon she is drinking him in and forgetting all about the chill of the words they exchanged moments before.

His hand drifts from her cheek to brush away a stray lock of her damp hair, lingering on her ear briefly before trailing down the crook of her neck. Her own hand fingers the lapel of his jacket and settles in on his chest, his heart beating like a metronome beneath his dress shirt as she moves to deepen their kiss. He yields to her advances, sampling the flavor of her lips, probing her tongue with his own, tightening his fingers around the back of her neck, until the heat in her lower abdomen reaches the surface of her skin and the windows of the car begin to fog up.

A thought occurs to her, a notion she would’ve never entertained in a hundred years under polite circumstances. But today was a special day, _her_ special day, and it was undoubtedly starting to become rather warm inside the Regalia.

She pulls away from him slightly and lowers her voice. “Ignis?”

One cocked eyebrow appears over the top of his spectacles as he watches her shrug out of her coat. “Yes, Darling?”

“How long do you expect it’ll take for the prince to grow suspicious of your whereabouts?”

“I’m not sure—fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. The convenience store isn’t terribly far from here.”

_That ought to be time enough,_ she thinks, tossing her jacket onto the seat behind her. “I might’ve thought of a way to make things up to me, after all.”

A second eyebrow materializes above his glasses when she reaches across the divider and rests a hand on the waistband of his pants. “You can’t be serious.”

But he doesn’t move to stop her when she loosens his belt buckle, she notes, nor does he flinch away when she nuzzles her nose against his neck. “You wouldn’t deny a birthday girl a simple request, would you?”

“I would if it involved abusing my privileges to company assets.”

“We’re not vandalizing anything, merely repurposing it temporarily. And besides—you’ve already thrown out my cake.”

“I know, and I sincerely regret that our evening plans were spoiled, but I really don’t think…”

Whatever protest he had intended to raise against her is abandoned when she lowers the zipper of his trousers and slips a hand inside. She can feel his burgeoning erection beneath the fabric of his briefs pressing hard against her palm, and he tightens a gloved hand around her wrist when she rakes her teeth along the tender spot under his ear; only then does he finally shy away, and only to turn his face toward her and capture her lips with his own.

“This is highly inappropriate, you realize,” he says hoarsely. “The Regalia is property of the crown, and an expensive one at that. It’d be irresponsible of us to treat her like some teenager’s jalopy.”

She traces the outline of his bulge with light fingers and tosses him a wink. “Knowing you, she’s probably already seen her fair share of excitement.”

For a moment, it appears as if he might attempt to make one last appeal to her reasonable side; she can see the wheels of conflict turning in his mind, can sense his desire to fulfill her needs at odds with the utter lunacy of her proposal. But the tenting in his trousers isn’t softening in the least—even a man a disciplined as the strategist had two brains constantly trying to override the other instead of just one—and soon the decision is made for him when his hips grind against her hand seemingly of their own volition.

His lips never leave hers once they’ve returned to her face, not even after she’s pushed aside the hem of his dress shirt to better access his briefs; a barely audible growl escapes him when she withdraws the warm flesh scorching his thighs—now standing at full and upright attention—and she trails one last kiss along his jaw before dipping her head below his waist. He releases her wrist to tangle his fingers in her red locks, twitching slightly in his seat when her lips meet the silky smooth skin between his legs.

His grip over her hair tightens, however, before she is able to fully envelope him in her mouth. “Darling,” he whispers, “it seems hardly fair of you to do that. We should be celebrating you, not me.”

But she loves tickling the strategist’s fancy like this, because she loves to make him happy, because nothing brings her more satisfaction than witnessing Ignis Scientia at his most vulnerable. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to return the favor,” she purrs.

The tension in her scalp then eases, and her destination is finally left unimpeded when he relaxes into her ministrations. She takes him in slowly at first, circling her tongue around the sensitive tip, gripping at the base with a firm palm, listening to his breath shortening inside his lungs. His hands move from her hair to drift down her neck, not precisely urging her on, but not willing to let go of her, either; she takes this as a positive sign, and allows a bead of saliva to trickle down his shaft before carefully pressing onward.

The redhead doesn’t need to see the expression of restrained ecstasy on his face to know how badly he wants this, because his fingers are digging into the thickest part of her shoulders now, his hips rocking gently as she settles into a steady rhythm. The hard tissues of his shaft grow increasingly more engorged with each passing stroke of her tongue, and she has to pace herself in order to accommodate his full length; a deep breath helps to widen her jaw and quell any unsolicited reflexes, until she feels the tip of his head bumping up against the back of her throat.

With any other partner, her actions might’ve felt like a bit of a chore; roadside service was fairly high up on the scale of tacky sexual endeavors, sandwiched somewhere between glory holes and toe fetishes. But Ignis had always been a gentleman of the highest class, and even if he’d had a proclivity for feet, he would’ve likely found a way to somehow romanticize the act of extremity intercourse, just has he had presently found a way to thrust his entire manhood inside her mouth nearly to the scrotum without even smearing her lipstick.

But it was admittedly getting a little hard to breath with a partially obstructed windpipe, and she knows he can sense this minor complication as well; he doesn’t say a word, and simply covers her mouth hungrily with his own as he draws her away from his naked loin and out of her seat. His lips then trail down her neck as she navigates the precarious path across the divider, settling into his lap only after she has thoroughly disentangled her knees from the drive shaft. It’s a tight fit, what with two bodies and four legs nestled in a seat designed for one, but no less comfortable, and when he crosses his arms over her waist, the warmth of his chest against her back is a welcomed distraction from the cold dampness of her skirt.

Her skirt isn’t the only thing that’s damp, however—her panties are even more of a sopping mess, and her cheeks redden when she feels his erection pressing up against the wet undergarment. But the strategist evidently has a solution to ease her embarrassment, just as he always seems to have a solution for everything in life, because he’s already gripping the lacy fabric with two eager hands and pushing it down around her knees.

Her breath leaves her lungs when he glides his hard flesh back and forth between her folds, but he doesn’t immediately plunge his shaft inside of her; instead, he props his wrists on the steering wheel, nuzzling his nose in her hair as he quickly removes his right glove. His bare hand then drops to her thigh, caressing the smooth skin there before moving up her skirt and burying themselves firmly within their target.

A cry escapes her, but he’s already pressing his lips to her ear and shushing her softly. “Quiet,” he murmurs. “The windows may be tinted, but there’s a security guard stationed fifty yards to our left.”

She bites her lower lip to prevent a second gasp from bubbling out of her throat, but the strong fingers he is probing her walls with is chipping away at her resolve. So she redoubles her efforts, sealing her eyes shut and clutching desperately at the drive shaft in an attempt to express herself physically rather than vocally. She can feel him moving tantalizingly close to her entrance, running the full length of himself between her thighs, only to withdraw from her at the last second like the bloody devil he was. His left hand releases the top two buttons of her blouse before slithering beneath it to cup one of her breasts, while the fingers of his right continue to penetrate her warmth methodically and without relent.

A moan breaks loose despite her best efforts when his thumb grazes her aching nub. “Darling,” she pants. “Please don’t draw this out like you always do. I’m going to ruin these leather seats if you don’t get on with it.”

Another grind of his hips; another wayward moan. “I can’t very well get on with it if you don’t show a little bit of restraint. Now, are you going to try and keep your voice down, or am I going to have to help you out with that?”

His lips are saying one thing, but his hand buried to the knuckles in her sex is speaking a different language entirely, and she’s forced to swallow yet another cry as he sustains the agonizing pressure on her nub. A wordless nod is all she can muster when she feels his teeth sink into the softest part of her neck, and her patience is finally rewarded when he shifts in his seat and positions her wetness directly over the head of his shaft.

The strategist may have been endlessly talented with his fingers, but it was his searing heat inside of her from which she had always derived her greatest pleasure; she would’ve held her breath if she’d had any left to speak of, but her lungs empty themselves entirely of their own accord when she lowers herself onto his cock. Her hand is clutching the drive shaft so hard now she is certain it’ll break off at any moment, and it’s only when he begins to thrust against her walls that the threads of her resolve finally snap and she is unable to contain herself any longer.

A gloved hand reaches up to stifle her rapture, but the quiet remark he whispers in her ear— _There’s a good girl_ —serves only to fuel the inferno already raging in her belly. The flavor of leather mingles with the blood she can taste from biting the inside of her own cheek, and she exhales forcefully through her nostrils as his grip over her mouth tightens with each drive of his hips. His free hand wanders over her trembling form, tracing the curves of her abdomen, caressing her breasts, slipping beneath her open blouse to lightly pinch at her nipples; she releases the clutch and braces herself against his strong thighs, angling her pelvis toward him until he is meeting the full edge of her resistance.

It isn’t long, however, before his hand returns to her aching sex. Another, less competent lover might’ve mistakingly attempted to stimulate her arousal by massaging her nub with all the nuance and subtlety of a carpenter vigorously sandpapering a plank of unfinished wood; Ignis, on the other hand, is more purposeful in his approach, teasing his ring and pinky fingers delicately over her sensitive hood with a precision benefiting from his expertise with a set of daggers. Her response is immediate, her body practically begging to be ravaged, and she lets out a muffled cry into his glove as she digs her fingernails into his legs.

There was an artistry to his method, and had she been in a more coherent state of mind, she might’ve commended him for his ingenuity; his cock was the hammer to his palm’s anvil, his right hand strong enough to curb her writhing as he directs his thrusts against the spot just below her navel. She isn’t quite sure which source is activating the familiar pressure in her lower abdomen more—the fingers he his circling around her hood with growing intensity, or the rock hard shaft gliding in and out of her like a well-oiled machine—but it doesn’t matter now, because the tingling her spine is making her teeth gnash against his glove as she draws precariously close to her tipping point.

Her thoughts are as cloudy and muddled as the steam fogging up the windows, but there is clarity as well, and she can see the culmination of his steadfast efforts just on the horizon of her mind’s eye. She had long since given up on trying to silence herself—the hand pressed firmly across her mouth is doing a suitably appropriate job at quelling her moans—so she simply grinds against his hips with a uncontrolled fervor, tossing her head back against his shoulder as she reaches the cusp of her imminent release.

How he is able to remain so composed when her climax causes her to buck like an untamed chocobo across his thighs is entirely beyond her, but he holds fast nevertheless as she shudders violently through each wave of her orgasm. His fingers refuse to budge until he’s coaxed the last bit of trembling from deep within her walls, and he loosens his grip over her mouth only when he is certain she has uttered her last feeble whimper. Where seconds before she had felt like her insides might burst into a million points of light, her body suddenly feels as heavy as a boulder, and she collapses against his chest as she struggles to draw enough oxygen into her lungs.

For a long moment, the only noise that can be heard is the sound of her heart resuming a measured pace inside her ribcage. “I know what you’re going to say,” she murmurs after a time, lifting a hand to caress his cheek.

“Hm?”

“We’re not leaving it at that.”

He snorts softly. “It’s your birthday, not mine. Why should I reap the benefits?”

But the strategist isn’t the only one with a method, and when the redhead clenches her walls mischievously around him, she’s rewarded with an audible gasp. “Really, it’s fine,” he groans. “Noct is probably blowing up my phone as we speak.”

“Then you best hurry up.”

“I’ll only make a mess of things. It’ll cost a fortune to get the Regalia detailed on my own dime.”

But his protestations don’t quite meet his voice, and indeed his idle fingers are already drifting toward her breasts. “Not unless you plan on finishing all over the steering wheel,” she says, relishing in the sensation of her nipples hardening under his touch.

She then feels his warm breath on her neck, his mouth dragging over the soft skin there before stopping at her ear. “Are you sure about this?”

Actions speak louder than words, she surmises, so she covers his hands with her own and arches herself against his groin. The lips he is brushing against her ear are soon replaced with his teeth, and he nibbles gently at her earlobe as his grip tightens over her chest; he somehow feels even harder than before, his drives more deliberate, his heat more acute, and even through each of his disciplined thrusts, she can sense the shackles of his restraint beginning to waver.

His will is still marginally stronger than hers, however, because she doesn’t need to clap a palm across his mouth to silence him; he’s already muffling his own ardor by tilting her face toward him and fighting for dominance over her tongue. Her hands fall to his thighs once more and she spurs him onward, her movements timed perfectly to his in a way that had only been achieved through hours of intimate practice they’d shared together. His features are both intense and serene, his touch urgent yet tender, and the look behind his spectacled eyes tells her there is a lust inside of him that is struggling to be contained.

So she does what intuition dictates of her, which is not to curtail his passion, but to encourage his more carnal instincts, because the redhead knows the only time Ignis Scientia ever dares to let himself to lose control is when they are behind closed doors—vehicular or otherwise—with solely the Astrals and herself to bear witness to his human fallibilities. She spreads her legs as wide as the undergarment tangled around her knees will allow for and bears down against his searing heat, gripping his thighs hard and stifling the urge to cry out loud enough to alert the security guard stationed fifty yards to their left.

There always comes a point in their lovemaking, however, when her efforts become negligible compared to the autonomous energy that abruptly possesses him like a daemon, and it’s happening right now—he pins her shoulders to his chest while his hips move like pistons, his thrusts growing ever more erratic against her slick walls. His eyes are pressed shut and a light sheen of perspiration coats his forehead and cheeks; she can see his jaw flexing tightly as he grits his teeth, can hear him exhaling forcefully through his nose, can feel his erection strengthening through his final drives.

She then feels the base of his shaft pulse angrily against her sex, followed by a warm sensation spreading throughout her belly. His mouth parts slightly and his lips move, but barely a whisper escapes him; his silence is little indication of his true condition, she knows, because the way he is twitching on the seat beneath her speaks volumes. It’s only when he’s deposited every last ounce of his seed inside of her that his pelvis finally slows to a halt, and only then does he loosen his vice grip over her shoulders and draw her back against his torso.

There was something rather extraordinary about the body’s response to stimuli in the immediate aftermath of strenuous activity; little things the redhead would’ve never noticed before now seem incredibly obvious to her heightened senses. She can almost hear the strategist’s eyelids blinking behind his spectacles, for instance, and she suddenly becomes fixated on the droplets of moisture collecting at the corners of the Regalia’s foggy windshield. His heart beats like a drum between her shoulder blades, his labored breathing as soothing as white noise, and she wonders briefly if the sound of her exhales was as comforting to his own ears.

But the moment of peaceful silence doesn’t last—it never did, much to her everlasting disappointment—and soon he is reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a handkerchief. “Here,” he says quietly. “You’ll probably be needing this.”

She takes his offering and grips the steering wheel, slowly extricating herself from his lap as she maneuvers back across the divider to the passenger’s side of the vehicle. She takes care not to lower herself onto leather seat until she’s stopped the flow of fluid trickling down her thigh with the handkerchief; once she’s returned her panties to their rightful place, she buttons her shirt and collects her coat and purse.

He’s already standing outside the Regalia and slipping on the glove he’d abandoned prior when she steps out of the car, his dress shirt tucked back into his trousers and his belt buckle cinched to its proper setting. She might’ve resented his ability to immaculately disguise any evidence of impropriety—her own skirt was wrinkled beyond all help—had his consummate professionalism not been the very reason they’d been able to carry on their dalliance as long as they had; she gives one last futile tug on the hem of her skirt and tosses on her coat, then circles around the back of the vehicle before stopping beside him.

“I’m sorry for derailing your coffee run,” she says, watching with curiosity as he pops the trunk. “You’ll have to spin one hell of a lie if the prince sees you returning empty handed.”

“Never fear,” he replies. “I always have a backup plan, just in case.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, until she sees him withdrawing a familiar item from inside the compartment. “You had that hidden in the Regalia this whole time?”

He sets a six-pack of Ebony on the roof and locks up the car. “My secret stash. I don’t like getting into it if I don’t have to, but sacrifices sometimes have to be made.”

She tries not to let her amusement show, but her lips curve into a smile just the same. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m banished to the garage for hours on end.”

She then retrieves her umbrella from her purse and unfurls it; judging by the deluge of water sweeping past the parking structure’s exit ramp, the rain outside was coming down much harder than it had been when she’d arrived. But the strategist blocks her path before she can take her formal leave, withdrawing a twenty-credit bill from his wallet and pressing it into her hand.

“Paying me for my services now, are we?” she teases. “I didn’t realize we had that sort of an arrangement.”

He tosses her a tart glance, but the smirk tugging on the corners of his lips is unmissable. “For the cab fare. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold on account of me.”

It’s a small gesture, but it’s not lost on her; still, she’d be remiss if she allowed his kindness to go entirely unpunished. “You sure you can afford it? Those stains you left on the seat aren’t going to pay for themselves.”

He then hefts the cans of Ebony from the Regalia’s roof and feigns a sigh. “I’ll manage somehow.”

Her heart is somehow both brimming with affection and fractured beyond repair; she’ll never be wined and dined by the strategist at the infamous Maagho in Altissia, will never spend a holiday with him on the white beaches of Galdin Quay, will never be more than a glorified bed warmer as long as a king sat on the Lucian throne. But she has moments like this to remember him by, a few hours here, a stolen glance there, and it’s just enough to satisfy her soul until the next time they meet.

A mask of indifference settles in on her features—the one she learned from him—and she tips her umbrella in farewell as she moves away. Before she can make it a dozen paces, however, his voice echoes out against the concrete pillars. “Darling?”

She slows to a halt and turns toward him. “Yes?”

His face remains impassive as he approaches, except for the hint of softness behind his green eyes. “If I didn’t say it before, Happy Birthday.”

She offers him a wry grin as he stops beside her. “Not in as many words, but you made the sentiments clear enough. Although I must admit, I’m a bit sad about the cake.”

“I’ll bake you another one sometime, I promise. And I do hope our earlier grievances didn’t spoil the evening too much.” The softness in his eyes has spread to his lips now, and her face warms slightly when he leans down to brush them gently across her cheek. “If you ask me, I rather like our arrangement.”


End file.
